


Spectrum

by Ewebie



Series: Tumblr Shorts [34]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adorable drabble but no real smut, And I will never apologise for bad jokes... I'm sorry that's just who I am, Art AU, I blame Fleur, John Watson Plays Rugby, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, This is just diabetes inducing fluff, Tumblr Prompt, Unilock, Use your imaginations people!, daily au, do not copy to another site
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-12-22 17:00:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21079997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ewebie/pseuds/Ewebie
Summary: I have achromatopsia (I am colorblind for all colors and only see black/white/gray) and you just yelled at me for ten minutes for ruining our art class project but I'm kinda attracted to you and don't wanna argue AU...“What is that?” Sherlock demanded disdainfully.“Project.” John managed a tired smile as he pushed to stand.“Clever. Now really. What IS that?”“Our project.” His brow furrowed.“No. Absolutely not. Your poor sense of humor not withstanding, I did think you were better than something like… This. So I’ll ask you one more time, what is THAT?”





	Spectrum

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FleurDeLis221B](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FleurDeLis221B/gifts).

“What is that?” Sherlock demanded disdainfully.

“Project.” John managed a tired smile as he pushed to stand.

“Clever. Now really. What _IS_ that?”

“Our project.” His brow furrowed.

“No. Absolutely not. Your poor sense of humor not withstanding, I did think you were better than something like… This. So I’ll ask you one more time, what is _THAT?_”

“Project.” John said slowly, glancing between Sherlock and the large piece over his shoulder. “Just finished.”

“This is… Whatever this is, it certainly isn’t finished. This is disturbing.”

“Worked all night, so ta.” John stretched and twisted, cracking his spine with a small wince.

Sherlock’s face flattened. “If you think this is a joke, it’s not amusing.”

“Fuck off, joke.” John muttered, wiping his hands on his trousers. “I worked hard on this.”

“_WHAT_ were you thinking?!”

John jumped at the sudden volume in the otherwise silent room.

“That wasn’t rhetorical! What is _THIS_?”

John blinked.

“Are you completely inept?”

Inept? John’s face creased.

“I can’t believe you could be so stupid?! Do you think you’re being funny?”

John crossed his arms. He, in fact, had not been trying to be funny.

“Did they put you up to it? Ruin this project as a joke?”

This time, John frowned. Now it was starting to get rude.

“Are all your little friends having good laugh? Send the artsy jock in to fuck up my one, ONE chance to…” He sliced a hand through the air. “Stop blinking at me like an idiot. Big blue eyes don’t work on me!”

John’s eyes narrowed. “Are you taking the piss?”

“Oh look, it speaks in complete sentences!” Sherlock hissed. “How dare you! Am I taking the piss? Are you?! This was important to me!”

“Oi! This is important to me too.”

Sherlock flashed an insincere grin before stooping to bring himself nose to nose with John. “You think you can just waltz your way along through this programme, putting in the bare minimal effort, and your charm will float you sustainable marks. Some of us are here to work. And I’ll not have you make a mockery of everything I’ve ever done!”

“Wait, no. Sorry, no.” John poked a conté coated finger into Sherlock’s chest. “When we were splitting this, you asked me-“

“Asked,” Sherlock snorted.

“Fine. Prick. You told me to do the portraits! I did them!”

“Did you ever…”

“Stop being such an arsehole!” John threw his hands up in the air. “I did exactly, _EXACTLY_ what you asked! Portraits. In oil pastel. On canvas. Life sized. With your modern framework addition. What the fuck is your problem?!”

“My problem? My Problem!” Sherlock gestured at it. “Are you actually blind?! LOOK at it!”

John rubbed a hand over his eyes in frustration and managed to smudge patches of sanguine through his eyebrow and across his temple. “Christ, you are impossible!”

“Me?!” Sherlock shouted, finally losing his patience. “Oh, you are _thick_!”

“Then bloody spell it out for me,” John hissed. “Because I am this close to losing my temper.”

“Just _LOOK_!”

“I am looking!”

“Oh my God, look at the colors!”

“Yeah! I get it!”

“Do you?!”

“You picked some bold colors!”

“That was the _PLAN!_”

“And I did the greyscale!”

Sherlock froze, his mouth hanging open.

John crossed his arms again, biting back another angry shout. “What?”

Sherlock blinked at him.

“What?” John shifted uncomfortably. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You…” Sherlock squinted at him. “You did it in greyscale…”

“Like you bloody well asked. Told.” John leaned back as Sherlock encroached on his space from above. “What? What are you doing?”

Something dawned, enlightenment spreading across Sherlock’s face. He looked at their project, studying it carefully. “You did the greyscale. Oh.” He pulled his mobile out and snapped a quick picture of the monstrosity, narrowing his eyes as he played with the image. “Oh, I see.”

John craned his neck, trying to get a look at the screen. “What’s ‘Oh’? What do you see?”

“Greyscale,” he said simply, turning the phone for John to look at.

He looked. His face pinched. “So it’s a picture of the project. Well done. First class honors all around.”

Sherlock cocked a brow.

“What?”

“John,” his brow rose slightly higher.

“Stop looking at me like that! Christ! What are you on about?!”

“Who else knows that you’re colorblind?”

“I-what?” John took a step back.

“Colorblind. I don’t like repeating myself. You must have confided in someone. An incorrect someone. Someone who either dislikes you or would like to see me fail. So tell me, which jilted ex-girlfriends are aware of your affliction and had the opportunity to sabotage our project?”

“No… I…” He took another step backwards. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you do,” Sherlock huffed. “Though you do a remarkable job hiding it. I did always wonder why you dressed in black and grey. I merely assumed you were making a statement. Stupid. It’s always something.”

“You’re being ridiculous.” John let out a nervous laugh. “How… How would I even…”

“And,” Sherlock held up the phone to study the picture against the project. “That’s not even red-green.” He tilted his head. “Or blue-yellow.”

“This is… This is nuts. Just because you don’t like what I-”

“Good Lord,” Sherlock spun sharply and grabbed John by the shoulders. “You have achromatopsia. It wouldn’t be in your student file. There’s no way they’d let you read for an MFA, even with the rugby. It’s remarkable you’ve made it this far.”

John felt the color drain from his face. “W-what?”

“I rather think you ought to have told me. I can understand attempting to keep it under wraps, but clearly someone else knew and is no where near as magnanimous as I am about this.”

“I-I’m not…” He sucked in a tight breath.

“Not what? Not lacking any and all functional retinal cones? Please, John,” he gave him a long look then released his shoulders and glanced down. “Is that why you’re wearing burgundy converse today? Doesn’t quite match that tee shirt. More of a blue than a grey.”

John looked down at his shoes. “Burg-“

“Made you look,” Sherlock purred.

He didn’t have the words or the air to respond. John groped behind himself for a chair and dropped heavily into it, trying to keep from wheezing.

“Black,” Sherlock pointed to the shoes. “Black,” the trousers. “Grey,” the shirt. “And,” Sherlock’s head tilted curiously. “Actually, your face has gone rather grey-green now.”

John let out a small whimper and tucked his head between his knees. His breathing was definitely tight. And fast. Too fast. He was gulping. God, he was going to vomit in the middle of the studio.

“John?”

“Oh God… Shit… O-oh shit…”

“John,” Sherlock crouched on one knee. “Now you really are quite green. And if you keep doing that to your hair, you’ll look rather ginger. And conté is incredibly difficult to clean from hair as blond as yours.”

John was still heaving breaths unsteadily. “Christ…”

Sherlock frowned and set a cautious hand on John’s shoulder. “Breathing too, I’ve heard, is rather important.”

Something of a hysterical laugh punched out of his chest. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck…”

“John, breathe.”

“Oh God…”

“Don’t be an idiot. I can’t have you passing out. Breathe.”

“Fuck.”

“Breathe. In and out. You have to breathe. In… Out…”

He closed his eyes and focused on the sound of Sherlock’s voice. Slow and steady. The rhythm of the palm stroking up and down between his shoulder blades. His hands were shaking when he managed to disengage his fingers from his hair, but he felt less likely to lose his lunch. “You can’t…”

“I’m breathing perfectly fine. You’re the one who can’t.”

He sucked in a deep breath. “You can’t though.”

“Got your breath back?” Sherlock asked carefully.

“Please, Sherlock,” John looked up, eyes wide and desperate. “You can’t tell them.” He wet his lips and swallowed to keep his voice from cracking again. “You can’t…”

“John,” Sherlock said patiently.

“They’ll kick me out. Sherlock, I’ll lose everything. Please. I’m two months from graduating.”

Sherlock heaved a sigh. “As am I, John. What on earth could I possibly gain from telling anyone?”

John just closed his eyes shook his head.

“Aside from possibly explaining,” Sherlock waved a hand in the direction of their project. “That. There is no gain. I’ve no intention of outing you, so to speak.”

He worried his lower lip, watching Sherlock’s face for any hint of deception. “Really?”

Sherlock hummed an affirmative as John managed a few more fortifying breaths.

“How?”

“How what?”

“How did… What’s wrong with it?” John stared miserably at the project.

“You were supposed to do it in greyscale, I was supposed to use the bold colors.” Sherlock eyed the project with detached curiosity. “And yet…”

“Yet?”

“May I see your pastels?”

“My what?”

“Pastels, please.”

John heaved himself out of the chair and stumbled across the room, tossing the last few wayward sticks into their box before returning. Sherlock glanced at the box and let out a sound of disgust. “What?” John looked at his supplies.

Sherlock shook his head and disappeared into his locker. John picked out a few crayons and studied them. Tested their consistency. Checked the labels. They looked normal. Out of habit, he dumped them on the table and started sorting them, organizing, lining them up in a neat gradient of dark to light.

Sherlock reappeared and dumped his own on the table. Quickly and efficiently creating his own line of shades. “That is what’s wrong.”

John stared at them. He blinked, tilted his head, and looked. “I don’t get it.”

Sherlock turned his pastels slowly, twisting each until their label was clear. “And now?”

“No…”

“Afraid so.”

“But… But they’re labeled!” John pointed at his. “They’re all labeled!”

“They are.”

“So… The… The portraits are…”

Sherlock forced a smile. “Are you familiar with Warhol?”

John groaned. “No. No, no, no.” John dragged a hand down his face. “Oh God. How bad? How bad is it?”

Sherlock pursed his lips. “It’s… unconventional.”

John let out a semi hysterical laugh. “Unconventional. Christ. There’s no way we can… There’s not enough time to redo… Oh God. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean…”

“John.” He startled as Sherlock’s hands landed on his shoulders. “I have a plan.”

John’s brows went up. “Yeah?”

“Of course I do. I always do.” Sherlock smirked. “Also, you have…” He waved a hand in a vague gesture at John’s face. “Conté…” The smirk stretched into a grin. “Everywhere.”

“Oh God,” John laughed, looking at his hands. “Everywhere?” He gave up trying to wipe his palms on his trousers and headed for a sink. “God, what a mess.”

“You needn’t worry about that,” Sherlock murmured.

“No?”

“The conté really brings out the color of your eyes.”

John gave Sherlock a wry look, but lost the severity in the face of the mischief in Sherlock’s grin. “Oh fuck off,” John couldn’t bite back a smile.

“Dare I ask,” Sherlock began, propping his shoulder against the wall and making himself lazily comfortable as John toweled his face clean. “You weren’t born with monochromacy.”

The humor seemed to leak out of John’s face and he cleared his throat. “No… I… No.”

“How long?”

“Since I finished undergrad.” He wadded up the paper towel and tossed it into the rubbish bin.

Sherlock cocked his head. “Injury?”

John snorted. “You think I’d still be playing rugby if I’d hit my head that hard?”

Sherlock hummed. “I’ve borne witness to stupider decisions.”

John shifted his shoulders. “You ever been to Belize?”

“No.”

“Mayan art. It’s… beautiful. Bright…”

“Colorful?” Sherlock offered.

The twitch of John’s mouth offered agreement. “Very. But also, they have a reef. And there’s ruins. These gorgeous standing pyramids. Pre-Columbian.”

“I can imagine.”

“Yeah, well,” John shrugged. “A group of us went there to celebrate. You know, graduate, blow off some steam, sun, tanning, hiking, diving.”

Sherlock smiled. “I am familiar with the sentiment.”

“I bet you freckle.”

Sherlock scoffed.

“Well, turns out, if you’re unlucky enough, you can still pick up malaria there.”

“That’s not an endemic region.”

“Nope,” John turned his head to frown at the project again. “So… That was unlucky. And then, you know, it’s treatable. And most people just feel sick on the meds, have some nightmares on the fucking stuff. But if you’re really special. Just so incredibly unlucky…”

“Chromatopsia.” Sherlock’s face softened. It all seemed horribly unfair.

“Yeah.” John blew out a long breath. He squared back up, collected himself, and forced a smile. “Don’t know why I’m telling you all this. It’s just so stupid. One in a million chance. Maybe I should play the lotto.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re more likely to be struck by lightning.”

“Oh good.” John gave a nod. “Only if I’m so lucky.”

“You know what I mean. Get your coat.”

“My coat? Why?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Because I need some supplies from home, and we really ought to have a chat with your flatmate.”

“My flatmate?” John tugged his coat and scarf from his locker, but by the time it was closed up, Sherlock was out the door. “Sherlock? Sherlock, wait! Why my flatmate?!” John ran to catch up with him.

~

John paced angrily, quickly covering corner to corner in the sitting room of Sherlock’s flat. If he’d given it a moment of thought, he’d have been impressed with the size of the open space and how fast he managed to traverse it. Instead, he continued to ball and unball his fists and tried to wear a hole through the floorboards.

“Here.”

It was the only warning he had, but managed to catch the bag clumsily against his chest. “Peas?”

“For your hand,” Sherlock quirked a brow. “Or your cheek. Whichever you feel warrants more attention.” John flexed his fingers a few times in consideration, finally sighing and holding the frozen vegetables to his face. Sherlock made a sound of protest, “Don’t… I’ll get you a towel. You shouldn’t…”

John dropped heavily into the corner of the couch, muttering, “I’ve had worse.”

“Even so.”

“Fine.” John wrapped the dishtowel around the frozen bag and pressed it to the bruise forming on the crest of his cheek with a sigh.

Sherlock hesitated, eventually perching on arm of the far side of the sofa. “I didn’t think you’d hit him,” he murmured.

John closed his eyes and rested his head against the back of the couch. “He hit me first.”

Sherlock tried and failed to smother a grin. “And you’re a south paw. I didn’t expect a right hook from you.”

John cracked one eye open. “Neither did he.” He managed to maintain a serious expression for three whole seconds before he started giggling. And Sherlock couldn’t hold out any longer than John. And for a good few minutes, they were both laughing with abandon.

Slowly, eventually, the mirth petered out and John sat up with a sigh. “Christ, what a mess.”

Sherlock hummed. “It still seems an irrationally strong response to wanting a better position on the rugby team.”

“What?”

“The thought and effort it took to change your pastels. He relabeled them. He made sure the new labels made sense. There are only two matches left in your season. Why go to such an effort for two games?”

John cleared his throat and leaned forward, planting his elbows on his thighs. “It wasn’t about the rugby. Or… It wasn’t just about that…”

Sherlock raised a brow. “Oh?”

“You were right… About the jilted ex… thing…” He waved a hand absently in the air as if it could qualify his statement.

“Ah.” Sherlock nodded slowly. “So not only does he gain position on the team, but he exacts some sort of justifiable revenge for a girl you dumped horribly.”

John flushed and scratched at the back of his neck.

“Still seems fairly extreme, given the circumstances.”

“Hestheex,” John mumbled in an incoherent slur.

“I’m sorry?”

“He…” He chewed on his lower lip, rallying himself. “He’s the ex.”

“Ah…”

“There’s no girl in the picture.” John started rambling. “We broke up last term. I thought he was ok with it. It was mutual. He started the conversation in the first place. He’s even seeing someone else.”

Sherlock gave him a long, appraising look. “You’re living with your ex?”

“Well I’m probably not now!” John buried his face in his hands and instantly regretted it, wincing as he put too much pressure on his bruising cheekbone.

“Why were you living with him in the first place?”

“Living in London is expensive,” he muttered into his hands. “And supplies are insanely expensive, and food is expensive, and pints with the lads is expensive, and Jesus, rent is just fucking insanely expensive. And why are you looking at me like that?”

“Well, it’s all a bit ridiculous.”

“I’m glad you’re amused at my misery.”

“John,” Sherlock shook his head. “He bought a pack of color pastels and grey ones. He had to look at the colored ones through a filter to figure out which ones would match up so that you wouldn’t notice. He had to break into your locker in the studio to relabel them, which must have been at night, while you were sleeping. And he did it all in the past four days.”

“What’s your point, Sherlock?”

“How badly did you dump him?”

John snorted. “What?”

“He really wanted to create chaos. In my experience, people only do that when they still feel strong emotions. That wasn’t a mutual break up. And he cannot care at all about this new person he’s seeing. Unless he’s also seeing another one of your ex’s…”

John hung his head.

“John. Tell me he’s not dating another one of your ex’s.”

“No!” John burst out. “No. God, no. That…” He blew out a breath. “No. He wanted to see other people. I left him to it. He’s going to be leaving London when we graduate anyway. I just didn’t see the point in trying long distance. I… We weren’t that serious about each other.”

“The state of our project begs to differ.”

“Oh God,” John grumbled. “What a mess.”

“Communication was not the forte of your relationship, then.”

“Apparently not.”

“It was physical then.”

“Stop. Please, just stop. My life is enough of a mess without you suggesting the sex I had with my ex was the reason he’s trying to destroy me.”

“Are you just that good?”

“I… what?” John’s mouth hung open.

Sherlock flashed him a Cheshire grin. “Just trying to imagine _that_ degree of want.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose. “No, stop.”

“Would you say he was upset enough that he saw red?”

He groaned. “That is terrible. Stop it.”

“That you brought color into his otherwise dull existence.”

“Sherlock, Christ. You said you had a plan. It wasn’t to just kill me with embarrassment, was it?”

“Tempting, but no.”

“Good.” He dumped the ice pack on the coffee table. “How do we fix this?”

“You’re going to have to trust me, John.”

John heaved a sigh. “Do I have any other choice?”

“Nope.”

~

John crossed his arms and chewed nervously on the side of his thumbnail. The gallery was packed; faculty, students, classmates, critics, all milling about with glasses of various alcoholic beverages, murmuring in hushed tones in front of the different pieces. From his vantage point, he could watch the people pausing and passing in front of their finished piece. He wasn’t sure if they liked it. If it was good enough. If they’d managed to fix it. He just couldn’t tell. And it was making his stomach churn uncomfortably.

“Why do you look so skittish?”

John jumped as the hands came down on his shoulders. “Christ, don’t scare me like that,” he hissed over his shoulder.

Sherlock hummed unrepentantly and replaced one of his hands with his chin. “Fearless on the rugby pitch, balks in the face of a few critiques.”

“That’s not fair. This is important.”

“I’m aware.”

John sighed. “Is it good?” He gestured helplessly. “Just tell me this is good enough.”

Sherlock made a dismissive sound. “Good enough? Please.”

“It… It’s not?”

“Do you truly believe I’d settle for good enough?”

A flicker of a smile crossed John’s face. “Not really. No. You’re… Kinda passionate about this stuff.”

“Passionate? You let me yell at you for ten minutes about this without batting an eye. You can’t be worried about the critique.”

“Yeah, well. I’m not in love with the people in charge of the critiques tonight."

“In love…”

John’s face flushed. “I mean… I… Bollocks.” He pulled out from under Sherlock’s hands and turned around, trying to put a small amount of space between them. “I mean, I don’t… They don’t…”

Sherlock tilted his head and raised an eyebrow. “You let me yell at you, because…”

“Have you seen you?” John sucked in a breath and held it, willing the rest of his stupid words to stay inside.

A few of the more nebulous details slotted into place and Sherlock’s face lit with understanding. “He knew you had a crush on me.”

“No! Yes. I don’t know.” John covered his face with his hands. “I didn’t… I didn’t tell him or anything.”

Sherlock snorted. “You wear your heart on your sleeve.”

“I don’t,” he muttered into his hands.

“Well that’s quite dull really,” Sherlock frowned. “He breaks up with you, moves on, becomes incensed when you show interest elsewhere, and tries to sabotage a yet undeveloped relationship.”

John groaned.

“What exactly did you say that made him realize?”

He shook his head. “It’s stupid.”

“I’m sure it’s not.”

“You’ll laugh.”

“Don’t be absurd. I’m intrigued.”

“No,” he finally lowered his hands, turning his face away.

“If you’re looking for the nearest exit, it’s ten meters to your right, but I do believe I’m actually faster than you are.”

“Chiaroscuro.”

“What?”

“Chiaroscuro.” John repeated. “I said… I said you’d make a great chiaroscuro study.”

Sherlock blinked.

He flicked his eyes nervously back to Sherlock. “That’s… That’s all I said.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

“That is, as someone who sees, as a style that, I…” Sherlock seemed to lose track of himself. “I think I’m flattered.”

John let out a nervous laugh. “Yeah?”

“Actually. Quite. Yes.”

John met his gaze for the first time since the conversation had begun. “Um. Good. Then.”

“Good.” A soft smile turned up the corners of Sherlock’s mouth. “And this,” he gestured at their project. “Is well beyond good enough.”

“Yeah?” He twisted to face it again. “What… What did you have me do? I don’t get it.”

Sherlock stepped up behind him again and rested one hand on his shoulder. “The original framework was, is still boldly colorful. I didn’t change a single shade there, just modified the shape. It’s a mix of jewel tones that may, somewhat…”

“Clash?”

“Yes, clash, with the brazen color choices you made.”

John snorted. “Totally on purpose.”

“Clearly.”

“And the-“

“The front piece, the frame there is black. The pastels I gave you are actually your monochrome greys.”

“So… how it probably should have looked.”

“In a manner. The rest of them, all the fragments, are locations on the color wheel.” He named them with their clock positions.

“And the bits between?”

“Various versions of color blindness. Protanopia, deuteranopia, tritanomaly, tritanopia.”

“And… The frames match the colors.”

Sherlock hummed an affirmative.

John leaned back, cautiously resting some of his weight against Sherlock’s chest. When he wasn’t immediately pushed away, he relaxed a bit further. “What about the name though?”

“What about it?”

“I just…”

“I should think it rather obvious.”

“Oh I get it. I just wonder. Don’t you think _Eye of the Beholder_ is a bit…”

“A bit what?”

“Literal?”

“It is a clever…”

“I just think it could use more… Style?”

“Says the man wearing a fuchsia tie.”

John’s hands flew to his tie. “What?!”

A low laugh rumbled through Sherlock’s chest as he caught John’s wrist. “It’s not fuchsia.”

“You have to stop. You’re going to give me a panic attack.”

“That would be counter-productive.”

John’s expression was unconvinced.

Sherlock ducked his head, his lips a hair’s breadth from John’s ear. “If I want to see you breathless, it’ll be for a far better reason.”

“Christ.”

“Mmn.”

A significant number of important looking people stopped in front of their piece. There were quizzical looks, gestures, brief discussion, and they moved on.

John let out a long breath. “No one smashed it to pieces, so that’s good.”

“Good,” Sherlock scoffed again.

“Hey, Sherlock?” John asked softly.

“Hm?”

“Honestly, tell me my tie isn’t fuchsia.”

Sherlock chuckled. “It’s not.”

“Really?”

“No.”

“What color is it?”

Sherlock reached a hand around John’s chest to tweak the knot where it sat just loose of perfectly snug against his throat. “Pantone 19-4045 TCX.”

“Oh… Right. Of course.”

“It actually perfectly matches the color of your eyes.”

“Oh.” A smile curled the corners of John’s mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> In case you were about to google it...


End file.
